


Drowning in Madness

by EmeraldWreck



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Character Death, Friendship, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21601720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWreck/pseuds/EmeraldWreck
Summary: A majority of Alastor's past was to remain what it was, a secret. Unfortunately, one person who very well knows bits and pieces of that past has a few words for him.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	Drowning in Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I want to write professionally someday, and I want to test my prowess. I'm open to all types of critiques and suggestions for this small story.

Dying is difficult; there's no way around that. Death, in and of itself, was easy. At least it was for me. Actually, I couldn’t wait to let death embrace me; surrounding me in a warmth I’ve only known for such a short while. Two times during my life, I was nearly killed the first, and permanently hospitalized the second.

The first one was tricky patchwork, one that quilted me on a string and tightened until fear washy only embodiment. I was only a child, but the painted shades of red and dimming hues of black were clear in my mind.

I was born in New Orleans in 1924 and died sometime later in 1939. It was 1931 where my first brush of death trapped me as a prisoner in my own body. 

My parents had a lovely relationship in the beginning; always working hard for the household and falling for each other's company in the simplest ways. If I remember correctly, my mother's name was Lenora Peters, while my father's was A̴̝͗̒͑͛l̸̞̝̓͋̇a̸̖͖̠̯͠s̴͕̲̱̊̈́̀͌ͅẗ̴̘̠́͘͜o̷̘̍̾̿͛͗r̷̮̞̥͍̍-̷̡̜̇̑-̵̧̡͍̻̤̆-̶̪͆̑.

I remember, at age four in 1928, I listened to the radio with my mother, waiting for the music to chime out with a curl of static; waiting for my father to speak and say whatever he wanted to. While I wasn't fond of the radio itself, I liked how my father enjoyed something so new and refreshing to the world.

Then, it was the crash of 1929. I was five when it seemed as if the world was beginning to tumble down the steep hill it rolled on. People were frantic, and my mother wasn’t saved from that fear. She listened to radio reports with a somber look in her eyes, and with me being too young to understand, I listened to her worries with a blank mind. Father, on the other hand, became more absorbed into his work, coming home late and retiring to bed with so little as a word. He didn’t seem too bothered by the crash itself, acting his usual chipper self when around us. 

By 1930, things became weird. My parents became distant. While they weren’t necessarily close-knit or even handsy with their relationship, fewer words between them were uttered. Mother tried, truly she did, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. It was a cool day in March of 1930 when dad came home smelling odd. There was a coppery smell accompanying his form, and just being near him burned the nose. A darkness draped itself around him, claiming him as some kind of host.

He'd sit locked away in his study when he was home. Listening at the door, I'd heard strange chanting and something sharp graining against wood and fabric. Mother got tired of trying to coax him out of his office, and tried to distract herself with menial things and hobbies that she tossed as soon as she gained an interest. She wouldn’t smile as often as she used to; a bright light that faded in the dark times around us.

At first, I believed that this rift was a result of the depression that began only a year ago, but it wouldn’t be until later when I found out the true reason.

It was a cold April day in 1930, a Tuesday if I remember correctly, when I discovered something confusing and odd. It was late and dad still wasn’t home. I was done with my grade school work at this point, and mother was still in the kitchen, sitting at the dining table accompanied by a cold dinner. Curiosity got the better of me; and if by some lack of control, my feet wandered, carrying me to his study. The hallway was dark; tapestry was beginning to peel from the walls. The odor from before permeated from the room.

A chill swept along my spine as I stood at my dad’s office door. The door was ajar and the light was off. When I walked in, I expected something vastly different from what I did see. There were large shapes lumped in a corner, covered by a thick plastic sheet; all accompanied by a small puddle on the floor, ruby and viscous. On the walls of the room were odd symbols, that were warm when touched. I shouldn’t have been here. Standing in the center of this room, I felt watched. Small items jittered for a moment before silencing once more; the sound travelling around the room to mimic the feeling of movement. I wasn’t alone here. Despite it being the crux of winter, the room was soon sweltering. My breathing picked up , and it felt like I was drowning in a pit of warmth.

The light flickered on.

“Annette, babydoll?” my dad’s voice. Something about how he spoke seemed strange. It wasn’t the usual New Orleans accent that most people in the area had, nor was it exactly the voice that many would hear when he perched himself in the Radio studio. It sounded like a blend between the two. “What are you doing here?”

I didn’t move, speak, or dare to look at him. Something was wrong; very wrong. A gentle touch rested on my shoulder. “Annette,” his voice was more stern. “Why are you here?” 

When I did look at him, my heart tightened. This man was a shadow of my father; something strange and foul hit me at that time, and my first instinct was to run. Even then, I knew my short little legs wouldn’t carry me far. 

One thing I noticed, but chose to ignore was his shadow. It was his, but it moved disjointedly. 

“I-I” I couldn’t speak. A nervousness clawed through me, and I couldn’t say a word.

“You know you’re not supposed to come into my study.” He ushered me out of the room. “Head to bed, it’s getting late. I’ll take you to school in the morning.”

I thought it was a nightmare. When I woke up the following morning, things seemed normal, as if the past few months were nothing but a dream. His study was clean, and his interactions with mother were normal, natural. At the time, I thought my mind was in a delirium.

The economy was still starving, but things were slowly hitting an upswing. Then, 1931 happened. 

At seven, I’d come home from school, unfed and a bit dirty from the dusty blow of the unpaved road near the house. When I walked into the living room, things were quiet. I couldn’t hear my mother strutting about and taking care of things as she usually did, and I assumed my dad was at work. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard something; a succession of small clicks washed away by static.

My steps were slow.

“Mom?” I called out. There was a sound so unpleasant that rang through the house. There was no answer. Dropping my school bag, I moved forward, finding the eeriness to be more than unsettling. “M-”

In the kitchen, there she was. Gone was her gentle looks and warming smiles. Her face was contorted in a rimming bubble of fear, eyes clinging to whatever she saw last. Her freshly-pressed linens were soaked in the smell of raw innards.

Her was covered in precise, dainty slices; neat portions of her removed.

His back was facing me, though he moved as if dining at an exquisite restaurant. Surely he wouldn't have heard me. I took one step back, and then another; rushing down the hall in a quiet panic, and into the wrong room. The study; books were strewn about, with pages filled with strange symbols. Footsteps clambered down the hall, nearing the room. I didn’t want to be in the open, and my childish mind took me to the first available hiding space; the closet.

“Annette?” he called. “I heard you run back here.”

The door to the office creaked open, and I pushed back further into the closet full of stale clothes and old shoes and hats. Sinking into the fabric, I made sure I couldn’t be seen.

“Annette, come out. You know you’re not supposed to be here.” he said, rifling through items around the room. 

He said more words and moved about, beginning to rifle through the closet just a small distance away from me. I knew too much, and my young mind didn’t want to stay here. He gave up the search, going to look into other areas of the house. I thought it would be safe to leave, though the filtering sound of static was present in the back of my mind. I ran out of the study, making a break for the back door. One last look at my mother, and I burst into tears; my sobbing ringing through the house as I charged my way out and into the backwoods. 

“Annette!” I heard him call. The chilling winds of winter blurred my vision, but I didn’t want to stop or look back. Whatever was after me wasn’t my father anymore. It was a shadow of himself, morphing into something else. Out of sheer fear, I looked back. Sure enough, the well dressed man was close. If he took a few large strides, I’d have surely been caught. I zig-zagged through the trees, hitting a boggy area. My feet sank into the wet puddles of mud, slowing my pace. 

I felt the neck of my collar tug backward, and I was ensnared.

“Annette, what’s wrong with you? You can’t go off like that into the woods, it’s dangerous.” He was deflecting, attempting to distract me from what I saw. He pulled me in for a suffocating hug. “I was so worried about you.”I thrashed and kicked, and once I was free, I ran further, stumbling down a steep drop. I landed on a pile of hard things that picked and prodded into my back. I was injured, and the shouts of my name called from above.

Sadly, I don’t remember too much of what happened after that. I assume that my father thought I was gone. Some of my childhood is nothing more than blurred memories; details that washed away with time. 

The next part of my life I could account for was when I woke up in a hospital far from that place; that event. Every day, I missed my home. I missed my mom; and by some sick, twisted hole in the back of my mind, I missed my dad. 

In 1939, the year I died, I spent my last year becoming a shape of myself. The depression had hit its height, and those like me in the hospital were hardly cared for. Starving and dirty, we suffered in a silence that was mocked. Nurses ignored us, and pain medication was nothing but delirium. I shared a room with about eleven other people, but by the time I died, I was one of three living left in their beds.

My last few moments of life were spent cursing my father, wanting nothing more than to see his end, and be there for it. I cursed him, pleading with anyone that heard me to give him a piece of my mind, or even a punch to the face. I had to get back at him somehow.

And I would get my chance.


End file.
